This Changes Everything
by Alyx Bradford
Summary: Circumstances force Helga to take a good look at the changes wrought during her life. One-shot, prelude to a longer work. Rating due to language and sexual implications.


_Authoress's Notes:  
I'm not sure I'm really all that happy with this, but that's okay, because I admit that it was rushed and not very thorough. It's mostly a preview to a larger work which is still in the planning stages. Think of it as a trailer. **Coming soon, to a website near you!** and all that.   
I just rattled this out between last night and tonight. I don't think it's all that good, but... well, we'll see what everyone else makes of it. Like I said, think of it as a trailer.  
Oh yeah – and some of it sort of assumes you know certain things about Helga's background and history. If you don't... sorry. ::sheepish grin:: The story also takes a few historical liberties, but the ones it does were the original movie's, not mine. All of my additions are historically sound.  
Enjoy.  
_

_

* * *

_

**This Changes Everything**  
  
The majestic city in the distance is literally breath-taking. I can hardly look at it for fear of betraying some emotion that would upset Rourke. He prefers that the crew see me emotionless and professional, and that applies now, even if the only crew around is Thatch, seated to my right, rambling incessantly about the Atlantean language.  
  
I lean over to Rourke, but my eyes are still on the kid. "Somebody's having a good time," I say wryly.  
  
"Like a kid at Christmas," Rourke replies, not bothering to look at Thatch or at me. I chuckle, but something catches at me. His enthusiasm is built off of something amazing, something I can't fully comprehend – the very idea that a civilization has lasted for, from what Thatch tells me, nearly nine hundred years _under the surface of the earth_! It's astounding. I can't begin to figure out the physics or biology of it – science was never my strong suit – but the ethics of the situation we're in now... _that_ is something I can comprehend.  
  
I flicker my eyes over to Rourke. "Commander..." I venture, lowering my voice so that Thatch won't hear, "there were _not_ supposed to be people down here. This changes everything!"  
  
Rourke gives me that look out of the corner of his eye, slightly disdainful and entirely dominant. "This changes _nothing_," he says, in a tone that indicates there is to be no argument.  
  
I rotate my wrist, cracking the joints. I know this irritates Rourke, but at the moment, I don't particularly care. He provokes me; I provoke him. By now, we both know how the game goes. Eventually he'll command my forgiveness – to say nothing of my compliance – and I will, of course, capitulate. How could I ever do anything else? If the past is any indication...  
  
The past is always an indication. Rourke say this changes nothing, but I disagree. Even if we go forward with the plan we've had all along… everything changes anyway. The result may be the same, but the path there...  
  
Change is the only constant in life. Everything changes. Life changes everything. Has my own past not proved this?

* * *

_Frankfurt, 1887_  
  
Alexander and Freida were arguing in English, snapping the words back and forth with little regard for the blonde girl playing on the floor of the kitchen. Helga only understood a little English, as her mother spoke to her mostly in German, and certainly all of her friends did the same. What little she could pick up from the conversation interested her, though, and she began straining to understand.  
  
Alexander said something about Mannheim, and Freida retorted with something about a house. Alexander said something about the army, and a word that Helga thought might mean "captain", and then Freida said Helga's name and something about school. Alexander said "good" and "Mannheim" in the same sentence, and Freida snorted derisively, replying with a phrase that included Helga's name again. _If they're going to do this often,_ Helga thought, _I am going to have to learn more of Daddy's language..._  
  
Eventually Alexander left the room, not quite storming out, but in no pleasant mood, either. Freida shifted little David to her other hip, and beckoned for Helga to get up and come over to her. Helga did so, thinking proudly that however little she understood of the conversation, David had certainly grasped even less.  
  
"Come here, darling," Freida said in German. "I have something important to tell you. Things are... going to be changing soon."

* * *

_Harford County, Maryland, 18 Sept 1901_  
  
Eight moves in fourteen years. Alexander Sinclair went where the army would have him go, and his wife and six children followed. Helga had long ago become accustomed to it, so when her father informed her that the family would be moving to London after Christmas, she hardly blinked. It wasn't as though she had any friends to worry about leaving. Constant change, constant shifting, always leaving before she had a chance to feel connected to a place or any of the people in it… it was the only life Helga knew. Sometimes she felt jealous of the girls who were allowed to be normal, whose lives played out simply and calmly... and sometimes she just felt superior to them. It was an easier defence.  
  
Her father meandered behind her in the kitchen. They did not speak for a time, as he mutely helped her fix dinner. Finally, he cleared his throat and began speaking in a tone of voice that Helga had come to associate with heavy topics. "I think," Alexander said, "you should start considering your future."  
  
"Why bother?" Helga replied. "It's going to come whether I like it or not."  
  
Alexander gave her a pointed look. Helga knew she was being deliberately difficult, but she had been in an ill temper all day, and couldn't be bothered to lighten her mood. "You're a lovely and accomplished young woman..."  
  
With a barking laugh, Helga interrupted him. "Oh yes! Look how well I compare to the other ladies of the county. They may be able to dance and embroider and charm men, but I!"  
  
"Helga—"  
  
She ignored her father. "_I_ know how to fire a shotgun and a rifle, can throw a knife from thirty feet and hit my mark dead-on, and am able knock a man unconscious with a bo staff. _That_ is certainly an impressive list of credentials."  
  
Having learnt long ago that the best way to avoid argument with Helga was to remain silent, Alexander did so for a moment. Eventually she stopped talking, and looked at him, waiting for a response.  
  
"All of that is true," he said, "and hear me well, the right sort of man will find it all irresistible. You have your own charms, Helga."  
  
"Ha."  
  
"You speak six languages, Helga. And that's excluding Latin and Greek. You're almost frighteningly intelligent. You are a strong and capable woman." Alexander touched a finger under his daughter's chin, forcing her to look at him. "And you are beautiful. The rest of these Harford ladies have nothing on you, nor will any lady in London."  
  
Her shoulders drooped slightly as some of the hardness fell away. "I think I frighten people, Papa."  
  
"Probably," he said, and kissed her forehead. "But most people are weak, and anyone weak enough to be frightened by you isn't worth your thoughts."  
  
After that night, Helga began to give serious consideration to London, and what opportunities might open up for her there. Everywhere the Sinclair family had been stationed before, from the birthplace Helga hardly remembered to the cities of east Asia to the small towns of America, had been either backwater or so removed from society and high culture that Helga had felt rather trapped. This had driven her focus and drive inward, towards improving herself as much as she could, and as such her social skills left much to be desired.  
  
London, though, would be different.

* * *

_12 Oct 1901_  
  
Life, Helga was to learn, changed just when you finally thought you knew the direction.  
  
The family was still some weeks off from moving to London when Alexander and Freida decided to throw a small dinner party. Freida invited the few society couples she knew, but most of the guests were friends of Alexander, army officers and their wives, if they had them.  
  
All of the children but David were in a fine sulk. The eldest son had, at the tender age of fifteen, had already set his sights on a fine military career like his father's, and so relished the opportunity to meet men who could influence his future. Gregory, Hans, Friedrich, and Alexander Jr, however, had been banished from the proceedings, dismissed as too young to be included in a long night with adults. Gregory and Hans were near riotous, insisting that they were nearer men than boys and should be allowed to attend. Fred and Alex were less fussed by that, but seemed to have decided to be just as ill-tempered in a show of solidarity with their older brothers.  
  
No one, however, was in a fouler mood than Helga.  
  
"I hate this," she grumbled as her mother yanked a brush through her hair. "Absolutely _hate_ it." Freida deftly dodged a smack that her daughter aimed at her arm. "I don't want to be paraded about in front of father's friends."  
  
"They're my friends, too."  
  
"As though that makes a difference." This time Helga's hand caught Freida's wrist, but Mrs Sinclair did not think Helga was too old for swatting, and popped her cheek deftly.  
  
"Hold still, and hold your tongue," she commanded. "It's not just your brother's future at stake tonight."  
  
After being shoved into a rose-coloured gown and nearly pushed down the stairs, Helga was presented to her father's friends. To their credit, all of the men rose when the two ladies entered the room, though the wives remained coolly seated. "Gentlemen," Freida announced, "I would like to introduce you to my daughter, Helga."  
  
Helga only remembered to smile when her mother pinched the back of her arm. She wasn't listening enough to her father to process the names of anyone she was being introduced to, and made a mental note just to address everyone as "sir" or "ma'am". _They're military folk,_ she thought, grinding her teeth together slightly as a portly older man shook her hand firmly, _they'll like that_.  
  
One name, however, she heard well, though only because the man attached to it was so very striking. "And this is Captain Lyle Rourke," Alexander said, as a man with dark but graying hair stood up. "He's just come off a tour of duty with the Rough Riders."  
  
"How fascinating," Helga said, a bit dully. She could not seem to tear her gaze from the man's dark eyes, which were locked just as intently on hers.  
  
"A pleasure," he said, lifting her hand to his lips in the same manner that the other gentlemen had done. With him, though, something was different, stirring inside Helga. It was a feeling of fear, the same as being thrown from a horse or having a weapon backfire, but it was intriguing, too, and she did not know what to make of it.  
  
"You're retiring at the end of the year, aren't you, Lyle?" asked Alexander, as Freida ushered Helga to her seat.  
  
"Yes, Alex, that's right," Captain Rourke said, though he still seemed distracted by Helga. "Too many years on the field of battle can do strange things to a man. Decided I'd take a teaching position at Fort Dix."  
  
"What will you be teaching, Captain?" asked one of the other men, whose name Helga had promptly forgotten.  
  
"Hand-to-hand combat, survival tactics, strategy," Rourke replied. "All things my superiors have decided our boys 'll need in the future. They say I've got the right sort of experience for it."  
  
Helga was interested in spite of herself. This Captain Rourke had a surprisingly easy manner, which was common enough among her father's friends, but she could detect a subtle intensity broiling beneath the surface.  
  
Much of the conversation at dinner was the sort that Helga had always been too stubborn or sulky to pay attention to before, but that she had that night decided could benefit her. _Didn't Papa say something about thinking about my future?_ she thought, listening to Alexander debate foreign policy with a Colonel. _It's never been what Mama would have for me… perhaps I, like, David, should look to father's friends for influence..._ And her eyes unconsciously flitted towards Captain Rourke.  
  
Over dessert, the Captain stabbed somewhat more viciously than was necessary at his chocolate pie. "Alexander," he said between severances, "you'll have to play me a game of chess tonight. It's been too long since I've been properly challenged."  
  
Alexander chuckled softly. "I'm afraid I may disappoint you, then. But Helga—" Helga, who had been listening raptly to a discussion of American involvement in East Asia, snapped her head towards her father. "Helga's been besting me for years now. You should play her."  
  
Rourke's dark eyes turned on Helga again, and something in them gave her a chill, as though someone had just trailed ice over her spine. "I sure will."

* * *

_Fort Dix, March 1902_  
  
Helga stood in Rourke's office, trying to keep the fear in her heart from displaying on her face. She knew she had toed the line one too many times. She had known it when she'd done it, but she had done it anyway, though she couldn't exactly reason why. Certainly not because she was hoping to be shipped back home in disgrace. Part of her always seemed possessed with an insurmountable fury to provoke Captain Rourke, though, just to try and get a reaction rather than his usual dismissive attitude. It hadn't worked yet, but Helga thought this latest antic of hers might finally have done the trick. Being summoned to his office had not been the reaction she had been going for.  
  
The door opened behind her, but Helga did not turn around. "Cadet Sinclair," the familiar voice said, as the door clicked closed again. "I hear you're being cited for excessively disruptive behavior in..." The sound of shuffling paper. "In your tactical investigation class?"  
  
"Sir, yes, sir."  
  
Rourke came around to the other side of his desk, so that Helga could now see him. "Could this possibly be because you so far outdistance your fellow students that boredom has driven you to misbehaving?"  
  
Helga blinked a few times. This was also not the reaction she'd expected. "S-Sir?"  
  
"Sinclair, I'm going to level with you." He sat down, leaning back in his chair with his hands folded behind his head. "Sit down. And drop the formalities. I've always hated the rigidity of them."  
  
"Yes, sir..." Helga mumbled the "sir" that time, and dropped into the wooden chair opposite his desk.  
  
"Now, then. Sinclair, I knew the day your father introduced us that you weren't going to be any ordinary cadet. You're brighter and more capable than the lot of them. And you've got an asset they don't."  
  
"Being a stubborn ass?" Helga replied, before she could stop herself.  
  
Rourke looked somewhat amused. "Two assets, then. I was referring to your being female."  
  
"Forgive me for saying so, sir, but that's hardly proved an asset to me in the past."  
  
"I know. Here..." He waved a hand somewhat pointlessly. "It's only getting in your way. The fools that run this place just don't know what to do with your sort of woman, Sinclair – besides keep her out. You know full well that you only got in because of your father." She nodded glumly. "Now, that's nothing to be ashamed of! Getting in because of that is better than not getting in at all. But I think you've outgrown the place."  
  
Helga knitted her eyebrows. "I'm not sure what you're getting at, sir."  
  
"I'm taking a leave from teaching. I've had an offer to do something a bit more – adventurous, I suppose you'd say. The British National Museum wants me to lead an expedition for them, to Egypt. The Valley of Kings, to be precise – they say they're after history, but more likely they're after pharoah's treasure, and I can't blame them. I'd like you to accompany me, be my personal assistant."  
  
Helga blinked again, then laughed. "Sir, I can't imagine what credentials I have that would recommend me on such a journey. Archaeology, history, exploration… those aren't my strong points."  
  
"But languages and military operations are. Sinclair, I don't know how much you know about the world of relic-seeking—"  
  
"Next to nothing," she admitted.  
  
"Well, it's cutthroat. The Brits have several competitors for these treasures. There's more to archaeology than brushing aside dirt."  
  
Helga arched an eyebrow. "So what do you want me to do?"  
  
"Come along with me. Help me keep an eye out for anyone who might… hinder our progress. Eliminate any threats that need to be eliminated. Are you in?"  
  
Helga knew she should say no, or at least ask Rourke to let her think about it for a few days. But prolonged internal debate had never been Helga's style. Rush-and-run was more the way of it. "Sure. I'm in."  
  
"Excellent. We leave for Rome in two weeks."  
  
"Rome? But—"  
  
"The main threat is there, from the papal agencies," Rourke explained. "I want you to find out what you can about them. I'm... known to them already, for various reasons. You, on the other hand, won't be under any suspicions." He stood, and she did also. "Welcome to the team, Miss Sinclair," he said, using a female-specific honorific for the first time since she'd come to Fort Dix. "I trust you'll enjoy the change of pace."

* * *

_Egypt, August 1903_  
  
Helga caught the first boat leaving Thebes, not caring where it was going. All his apologies and all his threats didn't change the fact that he had _abandoned_ her. It had been a choice, a conscious choice. No matter what he protested to the contrary, she knew that much. At a slightly higher risk to his own life, he could have helped her save her. If it hadn't been for her quick thinking and a dose of extremely good luck, Helga would have certainly been shot – or worse – by the gang of Italians that had descended upon them.  
  
She caught up with him again three days later, but apparently his extremely-talented, oh-so-unique, irreplaceable partner and lover hadn't been all that hard to replace after all. The woman she'd found him with had an exotic quality Helga could never hope to aspire to, with her thoroughly European blood. Egyptian, or Arabian, or Indian, or a mix of all three. Helga didn't know and didn't care. She had stormed from the room without a single word. Rourke tracked her down the following day, and tried to make excuses for himself, but Helga was having none of it.  
  
"For you, I changed my life," she screamed, afraid that if she didn't give vent to anger, she'd give vent to tears instead. And hell if she was going to let him see that. "I left a secure and comfortable future to follow you halfway across the world! And this is how I'm rewarded!"  
  
"Helga—"  
  
"No! Rourke, I've had enough of it. I don't know if I was just your little pet, to be trained up for show and petted on occasion, or if you really felt anything deeper for me, but…" Hellfire and damnation, the water stung at the back of her eyes nonetheless. She started pacing to try and hide this long enough to fend them or him off entirely. "But this is it! No more. No more of doing your bidding, of running back every time you fuck up, of forgiving you for every sin. No! No more."  
  
"Helga, you can't leave me." There should have been a note of desperation in his voice, but his usual commanding tone prevailed. "I need you."  
  
Helga took a deep breath. "That's just too damn bad, Lyle. Goodbye." She picked up her bag, slung it over her shoulder, and prepared to stalk out the door. Rourke grabbed her as she passed, crushing her to him in a powerful kiss. Though she felt her knees weaken and her stomach flutter, as they always did when he tried this tactic, she held her resolve firm. Pushing him away, she delivered a stinging slap to his cheek. He hadn't been expecting it, and was stunned enough to let go of her.  
  
Helga headed for the port, only caring that where she went was away.

* * *

_San Domingo, the Philippines, January 1904_  
  
Helga's backhand was intercepted, caught at the wrist, and she braced herself for the blow to the face she was sure was coming. But nothing landed. Instead, a male voice hissed, "Who the hell are you?"  
  
"I might ask the same thing!" she snapped back, wanting to yell but not daring to lest her target overhear her. "What the—"  
  
"Are you a woman?" The voice sounded distinctly startled. "Christ. It's too dark to see a fucking thing.  
  
"Well, it is _night_," Helga dryly replied.  
  
"Would you –"  
  
The door at the end of the alleyway opened, flooding the area with a light that nearly blinded in contrast to the prior blackness. The man in the doorway swore loudly, and Helga heard the unmistakable click of a pistol being loaded. Wrenching her wrist from the stranger's grasp, she bolted. The stranger followed, keeping pace with her. For the moment, Helga did not argue. He did not seem to be chasing her, or he easily could have run her to the ground and held her for whoever would follow. His goal seemed to be the same as hers – get out of range as quickly as possible. Helga cursed the alleyway's infernal length, and the man with the pistol was able to fire twice before she could duck around the corner.  
  
She did not stop running until she had put at least half a mile between herself and the threat of danger. The strange man kept at her side until finally, hidden in another alley, she slowed to a halt. "I think..." she breathed, "I think we lost him. Or he wasn't following us anyway. At any rate..." She glanced over her shoulder. The light was better here, and Helga could see that her unlikely companion was a tall man about her own age, with hair that was either red or brown. "I take it, given the vehemency of your escape, that you're no friend of Jamieson's, either?"  
  
"Friend?" the man said, not sounding the least bit winded despite their sprint. "I'm trying to assassinate him!"  
  
Helga laughed heartily. The man looked perplexed. "Well, then that either makes us competitors or partners. Your choice."  
  
He grinned in the darkness. "I think a partner would be more advantageous. What's your name?"  
  
"Helga Sinclair. And yours?"  
  
"Chris Jenkins."

* * *

_Havana, Cuba, 10 Oct 1906_  
  
"I'll be sorry to leave," Helga said, and knocked back a shot of tequila. "I've gotten to like Havana."  
  
"We've only been here a month."  
  
"I can still like it, can't I?" Chris couldn't tell if it was true temper or just liquor putting the sharpness in her voice. Even after two years of knowing her and one year of knowing her _very_ well, her moods could still surprise him. "It's… carefree. Easy. I'm sad to be going." She indicated to the barman that she wanted another shot.  
  
With his usual blasé attitude towards his job, Chris shrugged. "Where Taft goes, we go."  
  
"You think they'll still need us protecting him once he's back in the States?"  
  
"Dunno. Maybe they'll keep us on. Maybe they'll reassign us to some new governor-or-other." He snatched the shot of tequila before Helga could drink it, and downed it himself, provoking a fierce scowl from her. Chris pretended not to notice, and signaled for another round. "Who knows? Maybe Taft'll recommend us, and we can accompany ol' Teddy R. to Panama, or some such."  
  
Snorting, Helga rolled her eyes. "Right. 'Cause we're Secret Service material, us."  
  
"Hey," Chris retorted, "we're as secret as they come. We're more 'n Secret Service. As far as they're concerned—"  
  
"We don't exist." She sounded less confident in this declaration than Chris did. "Funny how valuable people often don't exist..."  
  
Chris knew the best way to get Helga out of a melancholy fit was to ignore it, so he sat back, balancing his barstool on two legs. "Well, whatever we end up doing next, I'll be glad to go home first. Been too long since I've seen the family."  
  
Fidgeting in a manner unlike her, Helga swirled the liquid in her glass before drinking it. "I'm not entirely sure I want to go back to the States."  
  
Chris opened his mouth to say something, but then looked at the somber expression on her face, and stopped. It suddenly occurred to him that since they had met, he had never known Helga to have gone back to America. He had made several trips, both while they'd been working together and when they'd been apart, but he couldn't say for certain that she had done the same. "Helga... when was the last time you went home?"  
  
Helga frowned, declining to answer for a moment. "Home. What's home? Lord, Chris, you know what the life of a military brat is. I don't have a home. I'm an eternal nomad."  
  
"You know what I mean. Virginia--"

"What about it?"  
  
"Well, your whole family's living there. Your dad's retired. Don't they live in Staunton?"

"Lexington. Yeah, he's teaching..."  
  
"When did you last see them?"  
  
She knocked back the tequila, and tucked a lock of hair back into her braid. "1902. Before I left for Rome."  
  
Chris stared in disbelief for a moment. "Fucking hell, Helga. You've not been back in four years?"  
  
"Four and a half, really," she said, her voice carefully emotionless. "I told you, I'm a nomad. I'm used to moving around. I _like_ it that way." Chris wondered mildly if she was more trying to convince him or herself. She sighed. "Life always changes just when I get used to it being the way it was…"  
  
A long moment of silence followed. Chris took a deep breath, shrugging his broad shoulders. "We'll come back to Havana someday. I promise."  
  
He wasn't looking at her, but he could tell by her tone of voice that the left eyebrow would be delicately arched. "You promise, do you?"  
  
"Yeah…" He fumbled in his pocket, and put something on the table, covered by his hand. "Maybe on our honeymoon."  
  
He slid the object towards her, and Helga saw it was a ring box. It took a minute for her to realize his intentions, but when she did, the shot glass slipped from her hand and smashed on the floor. "Good lord, Chris..."  
  
Grinning, he looked at her sideways. "Is that a yes?"  
  
"Of course it's a yes, you idiot!" she exclaimed.

* * *

_Virginia, 1908_  
  
Chris and Helga had been married on the first of May, 1907, at her parents' house in Lexington. As Helga had no sisters or any female friends to speak of, Chris's three younger cousins had served as her bridesmaids. Her favourite brother, Gregory, was among the groomsmen. They had set up a home in Quantico, both teaching at the army base there. Though both had credentials that were unusual, they were certainly impressive, and both proved popular teachers among the young cadets. But most importantly, they were deliriously happy with each other, in a needling, teasing sort of way. Chris still traveled somewhat frequently, doing favors for politicians or military personnel. Helga accompanied him occasionally, but Chris had put a firm stop to that as soon as they'd learned she was expecting. And Helga only argued as much as was necessary to save face.  
  
The telegram changed everything.  
  
The messenger handed it to Mrs Jenkins at the top of a staircase, which he later realized was a very big mistake. No sooner had her eyes scanned the line which read "...we are forced to move his status from Missing in Action to Presumed Dead" than she began to waver, and when she reached the part which stated "...military funeral to be held Sunday, January 2nd", the piece of paper fluttered from her hands, and the tall woman crumpled entirely.  
  
The messenger had gone downstairs promptly after handing her the telegram, but turned back at the front door when he heard the muffled _thump_ from behind him. He rushed and managed to prevent her from falling all the way down the staircase.  
  
The stream of condolences and visiting relatives never seemed to end. The funeral was nearly unbearable, with so many people around who wanted to talk to Helga and make sue she was alright, when all she wanted was to be left alone with her misery. It was bad enough to lose a husband, but to lose a child as well, in the same stroke from Fate's bloody blade… Helga, who had in her time faced many pains, thought she would perish as well from the force of all of it. Those who knew her thought for a time she would as well, as the once vibrant woman seemed to have lost all will to live. She had taken a sabbatical from work, moved back in with her parents, and didn't leave the house except when absolutely necessary. She remained mourning longer than the necessary six months, even keeping herself veiled whenever she did leave the house.  
  
Alexander came upon her one day, nearly eight months after Chris's death, reading in a room downstairs. "Helga... there's someone here who would like to see you."  
  
She winced. "No. I'm not feeling up to it today."  
  
"Helga, he quite insisted."  
  
Sighing, she folded her book in her lap. "Ten minutes. No more. I just can't stand any more."  
  
Alexander nodded, and went back to usher the guest in. Helga was examining the carpet, and did not bother to look up when the door opened again. "Good evening, Mrs Jenkins," said a darkly familiar voice.  
  
Helga felt her breath catch in her throat. "L-Lyle?"

* * *

_Iceland, 1911_  
  
No one had ever expected to actually find the Shepherd's Journal.  
  
"This changes everything!" Thaddeus Thatch gleefully exclaimed. "Ohh, those scholars back in Washington won't dare scoff at me now! Not with _this_!" He brandished the journal, hopping about on his spindly legs.  
  
Helga grinned, shaking her head in amusement. "You have to admit," she said to Rourke, "this does put rather a new spin on old Thatch."  
  
Running a hand through his hair, more grey than black now, Rourke had a strangely pensive look on his face. "I'd never put much stock in what the old kook had to say before, but..."  
  
"But if this place does exist," Helga picked up, "if this Atlantis is _real_..."  
  
"It would be the biggest catch of our lifetimes." Rourke grinned. "Those nuts at the Smithsonian would pay big money for real Atlantean artifacts to put in their showcases."  
  
A twisted smile graced Helga's lips. "And the Smithsonian's competitors would shit themselves." He gave her a slightly appraising look, knowing that they were both thinking of revenge on the agents who had snatched the Egyptian treasures out from under them eight years earlier. "A find like this..."  
  
"No one could ever compare..."  
  
A sudden fit of coughing from Thatch commanded immediate attention. The old man, in his excitement, had exerted himself a bit too much with whooping and victory dances, and now Joshua Sweet had rushed to his side. "Now, there, Mr Thatch, what have I told you about this? You've gotta be more careful about your health, at least until we get you back to a better climate."  
  
"Oh, I'll be fine, I'll be fine," Thatch insisted, waving the good doctor off, though his coughing continued.

* * *

_Washington, DC, 1914_  
  
Shaking out her hair, Helga's eyebrows furrowed in annoyance at the slightly damp mane. She hated wearing it down, but Rourke had insisted. In fact, Rourke had insisted on everything about her appearance that evening, and she did have to admit it seemed to have worked. The Thatch boy seemed entirely intimidated by her, as she had intended. His jaw had nearly dropped clear of its hinge after she had hiked her skirt up in his apartment, and now he was staring at her with a similarly gap-jawed expression.  
  
She gave him a shove between the shoulder blades, tossing him unceremoniously into the hallway. Hanging on the elevator door, she couldn't resist calling out, "And _relax_. He doesn't bite..." Thatch gulped. "Often," she ominously added, and shut the door, enjoying a good laugh as soon as she was out of earshot. _Good... he's properly scared of Whitmore... the idea! That crazy old coot hurting so much as a fly..._  
  
Whitmore had been more than an employer to her; he had been a good friend to a woman in need. When Rourke had troubled her conscience on more than one level, he had sheltered her. He had offered a job to a woman whose background made the current government too wary to employ her. He had listened to her stories of adventure and of woe both, discussed deeply over cups of whatever it was he fancied this week. And he had let her listen in return, when she was too emotionally worn to speak. Whitmore was more than a little eccentric, but anyone with his life would have turned out similarly. Helga wondered if her own stories would be as interesting to anyone who wanted to hear them.  
  
Whitmore and Helga were kindred spirits, both travelers, both learners, both active, vivacious people, and both a good sight deeper and more emotional than they let on to the general world.  
  
As for Rourke... he was currently in Helga's good graces. He seemed to be trying especially hard to please her lately, as though remembering that she had disappeared on him once and could possibly do so again. Helga considered it to her advantage not to let on that she didn't think she had the strength to run off as she once had. Rourke had, in the past three years, ensnared her more soundly than he had when she was only a foolish girl. _But if he doesn't know that…_ she considered, strolling down the hallway to her own room, _I see no reason to tell him._

* * *

Beside me, Thatch is still babbling. I've always had a proficiency at languages, and if I could concentrate enough to listen to him, I'd probably be interested. But my concentration is on the city ahead of me and the man on my left.  
  
Suzanne Necker once said, "Fortune does not change men, it unmasks them." I look at Rourke, at my Lyle, just now, and I do have to wonder… this changes everything. What will it show him for?  
  
Or me...?  
  
_Finis_


End file.
